Naive

by Charles Royce

  ((Flash. Boom!))

  “Jesus,” says the limo driver, as calmly as he can. “That was a close one.”

  Shawn had been suspicious of a separate incident involving one of Élan’s consultants being gunned down on the street near Union Square the same night as Lennox was found stabbed and left to die. Aside from both of them working for Élan, the two were deemed unrelated in the press.

  “Wait, the papers said the two have nothing to do with each other. One was a random man caught in the crossfire of something he wasn’t a part of, and the other was Lennox, which the papers called a domestic homicide, which we all know isn’t true.” Shawn pauses and squints while raising one eyebrow. This is why I felt something was off.

  “But what if they’re related?” she asks. “Listen, it’s complicated and weird, and I know things, and I’m still trying to make sense of it.”

  “Okay, Jenna, now you’re talking. What do you know?”

  “Well, before the other night, all I heard was rumblings. People who’d been fired and never heard from again. Like never again. I’m not talking about killing people, but there’ve been conversations around the office both at Élan and Cooper Harlow about Élan bugging phone conversations, following and documenting people’s private lives, employees being shipped overseas to work in remote foreign offices, stuff like that. But now not just one, but two people were killed that worked for Élan? In the same night?”

  “Ahhh, that’s what you mean by ‘sinister’ stuff.”

  “Exactly! Which is why I knew I needed to say something. If Lennox was in under his head, and God forbid he flew anywhere outside the lines, the company would nip it in the butt.”

  Ignoring Jenna’s hodgepodge of metaphors and idioms (something she does quite often when she’s trying to make herself sound more American than French), Shawn looks out and sees he has arrived at the W Hotel. Police are placing Micah, who is wearing handcuffs, in the back seat of a squad car.

  “Shit, shit! I wanna talk more about this, Jenna, but I’m at Micah’s hotel.” Shawn leaves the car and runs into the downpour.

  “Okay, but that’s really all I know. But I’ll just bet, if you get access to Lennox’s bookkeeping files, you might make more sense of it.”

  C h a p t e r 1 4

  Shawn is too late. He rushes back to the limo and tells the driver to follow the police car. They head across town, then down Avenue A, maneuvering through the outskirts of Micah’s neighborhood. They pull into NYC’s Seventh Precinct at the corner of Pitt and Broome.

  Shawn looks at the Williamsburg Bridge in the background, and for a second, he thinks of telling the driver to just keep going straight, to take him home to his wife in Brooklyn. But Jenna’s revelation has hit him hard. He’s committed.

  “Just bill it to my account, add 20 percent.” He gets out of the car with his navy-blue jacket serving as his umbrella. He moves toward the building with increasing intensity.

  Such an odd squatty building for New York City, Shawn thinks, only four stories high, such a waste of space. He’d been here the night before to see Micah, but was too shaken by what had happened to Lennox to pay much attention.

  He runs up the handicapped entrance, a curved, brick-walled path that leads up to the dark-red brick building. A looming canopy with huge metal letters that reads “New York City Police Department Seventh Precinct” covers the top of the entrance. He bolts through both sets of heavy, metal-and-glass double doors and enters the brick waiting area.

  “So much fucking brick,” he whispers to himself.

  “Can I help you?” the young pimply-faced policewoman asks from behind the desk. She is low to the ground, like a character from The Princess Bride in some sort of brick pit, which makes Shawn laugh out loud.

  “Shawn, Shawn Connelly. Here to see Micah Breuer.” He brushes the rain off his shirt with his drenched coat. “They just brought him in.”

  “And you’re his lawyer, I’m assuming?” she asks, looking at the sign-in sheet.

  “Yes.”

  “Since he was just brought in, you’re gonna have to wait. Probably a while.”

  Grabbing the ledger, Shawn nods and writes his name just under Micah’s, and then searches for a place to sit. He sees a set of four green, mid-century fiberglass chairs connected by a silver stainless-steel base.

  How could I have missed these last night? He wonders why he hadn’t noticed such a prime example of his favorite type of design. Looks like this was ripped directly out of a 1960s airport lobby.

  He pulls out his phone and goes to work. All of the chairs are scratched, beaten up, worn down from other people’s boredom, with carved initials, filthy suggestions, and phone numbers etched along each curve. The thick humidity outside intensifies the putrid stench of sweat and blood that continues to cloak these halls, despite the top layer of disinfectant.

  “Call Wallace Holcomb.” Shawn speaks into his phone. He mentally justifies talking with Lennox’s father in two ways: one, Wallace Holcomb is by far the more rational and civilized of Lennox’s parents, and two, Wallace isn’t a lawyer. Okay, that’s redundant.

  “Aw, hell no,” says the woman deep within the masonry, pointing to the sign above Shawn’s head.

  He turns around.

  NO CELL PHONE DISTURBANCES IN THE LOBBY.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Shawn says out loud, forgetting to end the telephone call he’s just made.

  “I shit you not. You think I wanna sit here all day underneath this fluorescent nonsense, going through this mountain of fuck, and try to ignore people’s phone conversations?” the young woman behind the counter answers, making Shawn wonder if she’s rehearsed this retort before. “You can go outside and talk all you want.”

  “Jesus. Ma’am, can you at least let me speak to the detective in charge?”

  She looks up at him blankly.

  He realizes his rudeness. “Please.”

  She pauses. “I can tell him you’re here.”

  “Thank you.” He grabs his computer bag, then mumbles, “This is why I live in Brooklyn.”

  Annoyed by the interruption, yet happy to breathe fresher air, he opens the first set of double doors and raises the phone back to his ear.

  “Shawn? Is that you?” says a female voice on the other end.

  “Mrs. Holcomb?” Shawn covers the mouthpiece and whispers Shit shit shit.

  “Yes, Shawn, it’s Elaine. Wally kept calling your name and was about to hang up, but I said, ‘Hell no, lemme talk to him.’ What the fuck is going on, Shawn?”

  Quite the normal reaction from Lennox’s mom, Shawn thinks. Shawn not only knows Elaine and Wallace Holcomb personally from when Lennox and Shawn were best friends at Harvard, but he also knows of Elaine’s reputation since.

  A no-nonsense lawyer who speaks her mind no matter the cost, Elaine Holcomb was a New York County Assistant District Attorney for well over a decade before she ran for mayor last year and narrowly lost to the Democratic incumbent. Shawn, along with the rest of Manhattan’s legal world, hold her in high regard as the Queen Bitch of Manhattan’s judicial system, and even call her that to her face. Shawn knows firsthand that she’s proud of the nickname. He also knows that she’ll stop at nothing until there’s justice for her son.

  “I’m sorry, Elaine. I’m here at the police station and couldn’t talk inside. I just called to see how you two are doing. I’ve been thinking about you both.” The gesture seems empty, but he decides to run with it.

  “What are you doing at the police station? You need some help? They don’t think you had anything to do with it, do they?”

  “No, no, I’m here to see Micah. He’s been arrested.”

  “About goddamn time. You know I never trusted that boy.”

  Shawn thinks her resentful statement is unwarranted. Before this emotional reaction, all Shawn had seen was Micah and Elaine’s unmentioned respect for one another—Micah for Elaine’s forthrightness and cunning intellect, and Elaine for Micah’s re
solve and unwavering commitment to her son after the affair. Apparently, she’s changed her mind and become fixated on Micah as the killer. Great, that’s all I need, Shawn thinks.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  Rather than let her know he is defending her son’s husband, he’s chosen a different route. Shawn knows how Elaine works. He’s heard stories from attorneys at his firm who have gone up against her in many a court proceeding. She is meticulous and is not afraid to skirt the boundaries of the law, and she knows the system too well to let it get the best of her. Shawn knows Elaine is already two steps ahead of him. No doubt she is already talking to the new prosecuting attorney and may have information he needs to know. This could be his last chance to get any information she may attempt to hide in the future.

  “What do you mean ‘What do I mean’? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” She takes a deep breath. “I know you loved my son, I should be more considerate.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Holcomb. But I’m curious, I thought you cared for Micah.”

  “I tried to, yes. Before he killed my son.”

  “But isn’t that a little far-fetched? I mean, we both know Micah. He loved Lennox. Like, really loved him something special.” Shawn knows this is pushing a little hard and could give him away, especially to someone as smart as Elaine Holcomb. But he also means every word.

  “You know, I wanted to believe that for the longest time,” she answers. “But let’s go through the facts, shall we? One, we have the Lennox and Josh affair, which my son fully admitted to. However, Lennox told me about the subsequent confrontation with Micah, and if you ask me, some psychiatric files need to be pulled on this man. Two, this was a brutal murd—”

  She stops. Shawn wonders if he has lost the connection, but then hears a soft clearing of the throat on the other end of the line. Could this be the stoic Queen Bitch actually feeling something? Could this be…

  “A brutal, unforgiveable murder,” she continues as if she never stopped. “And we all know what that means. Crime of passion. I don’t think he ever forgave my son, or maybe Lennox was involved with someone else, or maybe Micah thought he was. Whatever. Micah had motive. Three, apparently Lennox wasn’t the only one Micah threatened because the prosecution has the testimony of that poor Josh fellow on video saying he felt so threatened that he didn’t leave his apartment for an entire six weeks. Four, Micah beat my son to death even after knowing that he was still alive. Lenny was still alive. And finally, here’s the kicker: turns out my son has a life insurance policy worth one point five million. One point five. And you’ll never guess who the sole beneficiary is.”

  Silence.

  “Now tell me again how much he loved my son.”

  Shawn doesn’t speak. He’s trying very hard to write all of this down without her hearing his pencil scratching on his legal pad.

  “Mrs. Holcomb.”

  “Elaine.”

  “Elaine. All of that happened over two years ago, including the life insurance. I helped them with that myself. And I hear there might be other leads, other suspects. I truly think Micah was trying to help Lennox.”

  “Believe what you want, Shawn. I’m sure you could cook up quite the defense …”

  Her voice trails. She knows.

  “Elaine, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You’re defending that sonofabitch.”

  “Yes.”

  ((Click.))

  C h a p t e r 1 5

  “Mr. Shawn Connelly, I’m Detective Bronson Penance. You wanted to see me?”

  Shawn is leaning back on what he has now deemed his green chair in the foyer of Precinct Seven. Almost two hours have passed since Lennox’s mother hung up on him. He’s just finished writing two highly detailed lists, one of the evidence and potential theories the prosecution may use to convict his client, and one of potential leads to mount an ironclad defense, leads that perhaps the detective doesn’t know about.

  “Yes, detective, I remember you,” Shawn answers. “I want to see my client, but I have a few questions first.”

  “No need, counsel. I’m sure you know that the victim’s mother, Elaine Holcomb, used to be a highly respected New York County ADA, so it shouldn’t surprise you that this case is on the fast track.” He hands a folder to Shawn. “Arraignment is Wednesday. Here’s what I can give you right now. On Wednesday, of course, you’ll receive a copy of the updated police report, as well as statements from witnesses who saw Micah exiting and entering, as well as from the ex—Josh Harrison, I believe, is his name.”

  “Wednesday? It’s Monday and I haven’t even gotten to talk to my client yet.”

  “It’s tough, isn’t it? We haven’t even explored all our leads yet.”

  “My God, that woman,” Shawn says.

  “Tell me about it. Micah killed her son, no doubt about it. Not sure if he started it, but he definitely finished it. It doesn’t look good. Micah’s waiting for you. Interrogation room 4, past the brick wall and up the stairs, end of the hall.”

  “Thanks, Detective. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

  “I just did.”

  “I want you to check Lennox’s work computer.”

  “On it already.”

  “No, not his laptop, which I’m sure you have, but his work computer. I think it might point to something criminal.”

  “Attacking a dead man already, are we?”

  “It’s not that,” Shawn says. “The company he works for. I think there’s something there.”

  “Ahh, the double murder theory. Already considered it, but they’re completely different crimes.” Even as the words exit his mouth, something in the detective’s gut tells him that something isn’t right. He decides to go out on a limb and offer something else to Shawn. “There’s something else. You know of any drug dealers who use a ghost emblem on their packaging?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Look, I’ve been around the block enough to know that your client did it, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t explore every lead, including this computer thing you’re talking about.” He nods in the direction of the folder Shawn is holding. “But take a look at this and see if it looks familiar.”

  Shawn opens the folder to see crude drawing of a skinny house with a curved wavy base and a thick horizontal black line straight across the middle.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Shawn says. He sees a thick arrow pointing up with left-right protrusions that look like stubby blocks.

  “A ghost, maybe?” Detective Penance says.

  “I mean, okay, maybe, but what is it? Like what does it have to do with anything?”

  “This emblem was found on several heroin bags that may have belonged to the deceased. One of the bags was half empty. We believe Lennox may have been involved in drugs, perhaps even dealing.”

  “Shit.” Shawn is filled with disgust that his friend could have been using again, mixed with hope that he might have yet another lead.

  “Yep. Now I know it’s a little unorthodox to share this kind of information at this point, but this one has got us curious. I’m already on it, but I’m sure your private investigator could find him quicker. Maybe?” Detective Penance knows Shawn works with Lyte & Morgan and has access to high-priced, better-connected P.I.s that could make the difference in this case.

  “They’re already pulling video footage from every camera in the vicinity, but I’ll put them on this as well. Thank you, Detective.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, we do our job here. Concentrating on one perp has bitten us in the ass before.”

  “Alleged perp.”

  “I stand corrected. Now go see your client, Mr. Connelly. Just past—”

  “The brick wall,” they say in unison.

  C h a p t e r 1 6

  The white entrance reads 228 in aluminum-carved, sans-serif numbers. Freckled hands unlock the front door with a key. They are careful
to use the key only, leaving no fingerprints on the handle.

  “Super here. Hello? I’m here to upgrade the wall sockets,” he says in a gruff and powerful voice. No answer.

  He is dressed in navy overalls. His spiky hair is covered by a baseball cap. As he walks past the kitchen, can lights from above illuminate the back of his uniform, which displays “LES Janitorial” on a large embroidered patch. He continues down the hall, slipping his fingers into heavily worn carpenter gloves.

  “We have an appointment, I don’t mean to scare you.”

  Again, no answer. He seems to be in the clear.

  He pulls a shiny laptop out of the chest pocket of his overalls and continues past the first bedroom and into the second at the end of the hall. He walks into the dark, perfectly ordered room. He puckers his lips with approval.

  The blinds are drawn. He places the laptop on the bed and opens the closet.

  On the right side of the top closet shelf sits a stack of notebooks and papers. He lifts the stack and places it next to the laptop on the bed. Then he grabs the laptop from the bed and places it where the stack used to be. Almost as if he has rehearsed this exchange, he then turns and grabs the stack of notebooks and papers from the bed and places it on top of the laptop, making sure all the corners line up.

  He reaches to the ceiling of the closet and removes the envelope that has been taped there, and places it inside the same pocket of his overalls.

  Using his gloved hands, he smoothes the bed, removing the indentations left by the laptop and stack of papers.

  “Thank you. I’m done,” he says out loud, with a smirk.

  He leaves.

  C h a p t e r 1 7

  Shawn enters interrogation room 4 and sees his client staring right at him, sitting straight up, smiling. The room is flooded with fluorescent lighting, which bounces off the stark white walls in all directions, causing Shawn to squint until his eyes adjust. He looks up at the camera in the corner over Micah’s right shoulder and waves with a single jazz hand.